The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold,Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heapOn baseness loss. The hues of oldRevisit not the wool we steep;And genuine worth, expell'd by fear,Returns not to the worthless slave.Break but her meshes, will the deerAssail you? then will he be braveWho once to faithless foes has knelt;Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly,Who with bound arms the cord has felt,The coward, and has fear'd to die.He knows not, he, how life is won;Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade!Great art thou, Carthage! mate the sun,While Italy in dust is laid!”